And Then the World Didn't End After All
by TheDonutMistress
Summary: Some things are harder to deal with than death. Living an ordinary life isn't always easy. Minifics, with different people each chapter. Ch. 1 is Reno n Elena, 2 is Tseng n Elmyra and 3 is Yazoo n Loz. Reviews are love.
1. Reno and Elena

Kinda random and stuff. It's me, so what did you expect? But guess what? I only used the f-word once. Therefore, this is a T-rated fic for the time being. This is going to be a series of kinda-sorta-but-not-really-related ficlets. Each could probably stand alone. I just feel like bunching them together. Basically just random (and semi-depressing, in some cases) little blurbs, featuring various FF7 characters after the game and in most cases, after Advent Children.

First up: Reno and Elena, late night guard duty at... whatever Rufus calls his place. Chez Rufus. There. Elena's the thinker, Reno's the doer. Duh.

Oh yeah, I don't own anyone or anything from Final Fantasy VII, except my Vincent, Tifa and Sephiroth action figures. I have pictures of them groping each other here: feffu-slash-cat-dot-livejournal-dot-com-slash-124506-dot-html

* * *

Surrender the Day

The night shift. Elena would rather work during the day. Nights spent guarding Rufus Shinra tend to drag on. It doesn't help that most of these _nights _are also spent with Reno. He's funny, sure, in a horribly inappropriate way. He's a good guy - loyal to his comrades and a valuable asset to the team, but... Elena can't quite put her finger on it. Reno's just so damn unpredictable and it puts her on edge. He thrives on chaos. He thrives on it and she hates it. She craves order and structure. Reason. Things that make sense. Habits, patterns, routines. Measurable things. Comprehensible things. Not Reno. The crazier things get, the happier he seems.

The worst thing about the night shift, Elena realizes, is that it gives her too much time to think. About everything. Life, work, her friends, her enemies, her colleagues, _herself_. The past and the future. The present.

"I got it under control, Elena. You can go home if you want to." Reno glances away from the computer and at her.

"It's fine."

"Alright, then go take a break. Take a nap or something. I didn't wanna be the one to say this, but you're lookin' a little rough lately," Reno informs his partner for the evening, in that casual, yet smug tone of his.

The aftereffects of torture, Elena thinks to herself, but says only, "Thanks for the concern." Somewhat after the fact she insists, "I'm fine."

Reno doesn't push it, just shrugs and returns to whatever it is he's doing on the computer. Elena doubts it's work-related.

"It's weird, you know," Reno muses. Elena isn't sure she wants to know where he's going with this. "Working nights like this. Hard to tell when one day ends and the next one begins. Fucks with your mind."

Elena manages a small chuckle. She understands. She understands it all too well.

"How about you, huh? What are you aiming for?" Reno asks, suddenly.

"What am I- what are you talking about, Reno?" Elena asks, puzzled and no longer worried about saving face. She's long since learned that being confused by her coworkers just comes with the job. Kind of like the suit.

Reno stands up suddenly, patting his jacket pocket, letting out a triumphant little, "Heh," as he pulls out his lighter and a pack of cigarettes. He peers into the carton, holding it up and squinting into it. He lets his mouth hang open, shuts one eye and gives the box a little shake. One cigarette left. Reno retrieves it, then tosses the empty carton into the garbage.

"Reno?"

"Back in a sec," he says, simply, as he heads for the door. He's going to smoke on the back steps, like he always does.

"You didn't answer me!" Elena shouts, following behind him. She just can't let it go, stupid as it may be. She can't leave it unfinished, even if it is only a thought, and one of Reno's.

"What?" Reno asks, cigarette in mouth. A quick second later, it's lit and he inhales. He drops his lighter back into his pocket. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I don't know! That's the problem!"

Reno exhales. He utters a contemplative, "Hmm."

"You asked me what I was aiming for," she reminds him.

"Oh yeah. Then you're the one who didn't answer me."

Elena falters a little.

Reno laughs.

"It's because I didn't know what you were talking about!"

"What are you aiming for, Elena?" he repeats himself. "What time, I mean. What time are you aiming for?"

"Time to do what?"

"Time to," Reno pauses and takes a drag. He exhales and the stream of smoke spreads out and fades into the night. "To surrender the day, you know. To give up on it and agree to let tomorrow happen."

"Why? What time were _you_ aiming for?" Elena asks, somewhat spitefully. She doesn't seriously expect to get a real answer out of Reno. Because Reno doesn't _really _think this way. Think this _way_? Hah. Reno doesn't think this _much._ This is all just a joke, just a ploy to make Elena feel stupid and get on her nerves.

Reno flicks the ashes from his cigarette. "One."

Elena is a bit taken aback and a surprised little, "Oh," escapes her lips. "What time is it now?" she asks, shyly.

The redhead smirks and glances at his watch. "Quarter 'til four."

"It already _is_ tomorrow, you know," Elena points it out.

"I know," Reno agrees. Takes another drag. A long, slow one. "I guess I just haven't accepted it yet."

It's quiet. Elena finally pipes up when she sees Reno toss his cigarette into the darkness. "So what now?" she wonders.

"Now," Reno begins, thoughtfully. "I guess I'm aiming for four."

"Will you make it?" Elena asks, almost hopefully.

Reno shrugs and heads back inside. "Dunno. But you'll be the first to find out." He pauses and looks back. "Won't you?"

* * *

Okay. That wasn't so terrible, was it? I hope not, because there's more to come. Haven't decided who's next, but right now it's between Barret and Marlene, and Tseng and Elmyra (not a romance, you icky people XD).

And can someone tell me why spaces NEVER show up and my words are bunchedtogetherlikethis half the time? It's incredibly annoying. I'm a bad typist, I know, but I'm not _that_ bad.


	2. Tseng and Elmyra

Okay, so I've decided it's Tseng and Elmyra next. Mostly because I can't get the Barret and Marlene chapter done to my own satisfaction. Then again, this one isn't really either. XD

Gainsborough is Elmyra's surname, yes? I assume it is, as Aeris's _real_ last name would be Gast. Either way, it's Elmyra's last name in this.

I don't own anyone or anything from Final Fantasy VII.

* * *

Play the Hand You're Dealt

Elmyra Gainsborough is a very forgiving woman. Or perhaps just a very lonely one. The latter is more likely, Tseng has decided. He's still not sure why she's accepted him. It's his fault, really, that Aeris is dead. Or so he thinks, even now. He may have been one of the bad guys then - maybe he still is now - but that's beside the point. Tseng mourns Aeris the same as anyone who knew her.

_The threat of Meteor was gone. Midgar and the surrounding area was a shambles, but the people persevered. Many were still missing. Just as many were dead. _

_Surely, someone had gone to Mrs. Gainsborough and informed her that her daughter was among the deceased. Had been for a while, as a matter of fact._

_Aeris's death was old news, as delivered by Tseng and he knew it, but he still went. It struck him odd that Reeve, of all people, had been the one to visit the poor woman and tell her everything._

_Why hadn't Cloud, if he really loved her so much?_

_Tseng told himself he was just being bitter; he couldn't help it that Aeris didn't love him anymore than Cloud could help it that she_ did _love him. He chuckled._ If _she did. Then he sighed. She did. __Suit perfectly pressed and standing stiff as a board, he rang the bell._

_The look he received was that of skepticism and subdued rage, though Elmyra didn't slam the door in his face, or shout at him. She gazed upon him, eyes narrowed and with forced pleasantness, asked, "What more do you people want from me?"_

_"Your daughter is dead," he said, simply._

_"I know," Elmyra said, exhaustedly. "So why are you here?"_

_"I came to offer my condolences," the Turk replied. His tone was even, emotionless. All business. One might mistake it for aloofness - one unable to see how deeply wounded the man was._

_There was a long pause. Elmyra looked down, the dishtowel draped over her forearm nearly slipping to the ground. She straightened the cloth and looked up, meeting Tseng's gaze. "Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?"_

A clock ticks loudly in the background. A small, pastel blue tea kettle sits in the middle of the table. Light dances across the walls. It's a lot like her old house, in the slums of Midgar, Tseng muses. The same look and feel. It's homey. Homey and familiar. Tseng has spent more afternoons here than he ever would've imagined.

He looks up from his drink, to Elmyra, as she shuffles a deck of cards. His gaze is intense, _unnerving _even.

The shuffling stops. "Something wrong?" she asks, politely.

"Why?" the Turk asks, simply.

"Why?" Elmyra repeats, as if she doesn't know. She deals the cards.

"Yes. _Why_?"

Elmyra looks over her hand. A well-concealed smirk sits on her face. "Why do I keep inviting you in? Same reason you keep showing up, I'd imagine." She repositions the cards in her hand as she tells Tseng, "Because you loved her, too."

A faint smile adorns Tseng's face. He reaches for his cards. He and Elmyra are the same. They'll both play the hand they're dealt.

"More tea?"

* * *

Notes and crap: I messed with this for a while before posting it and sadly, this was the best arrangement I could come up with. I tried putting it all in present-tense and it didn't work. Tried tweaking the content and putting it all in past-tense and it was even worse. Tried moving the opening paragraph closer to the bottom and the story just lost... something. So you're stuck with it as is. W00t. Review and stuff and I'll hit ya back if you've written something within a fandom I'm familiar with.

Next chapter will be... Barret and Marlene if I can ever pull it outta my ass. Or maybe Yazoo and Loz. (OMG, they're not dead in my world! Yay! They're also not lovers in my world, so I'm sorry to anyone who wants that. XP)


	3. Yazoo and Loz

Ah, crap. This one's longer than the first two. But it's Yazoo and Loz! (The Marlene and Barret part is kicking my ass.) It's a bit Yazoo-centric, though I assure you, I really, truly **adore** Loz with all my heart. He's actually my favorite of the SHM. He wears leather and cries and has the awesomest sideburns ever. I hope I haven't made him too pouty or broody or childish or too _anything_, really. Then again, this is the dude who used the term "meanie" in Advent Children, so I shouldn't have anything to worry about.

Still don't own any of the Final Fantasy VII people.

* * *

Makeshift

It's a small apartment, in a very small town, seemingly cutoff from the rest of the world. It's cheap and it's quiet and Yazoo figures he and Loz aren't likely to be recognized. Not for a while, anyway. They'll leave when they aren't painfully dizzy and limping, or when they're found out. They both secretly hope for the former, but expect the latter. Yazoo isn't sure where they'll go when they _do _leave. It's never really been his call before. It was always up to Mother, and Kadaj was her ambassador.

Loz is seated on the couch, one leg propped up on a worn looking coffee table. The right leg of his shorts is rolled up a bit. Only an inch or so of flesh is visible between the material and the cast he's wearing.

Yazoo stands near the window. He sighs, bored, and glances back at his brother. "Loz, stop that," he says, warningly.

Loz frowns and huffs a little. His leg is itching again.

Sensing Loz is about to complain, about to try to justify poking and scratching at his broken leg with a fork, Yazoo coldly tells him, "Deal with it."

"I am," he insists. He raises the utensil to further his point. "What do you call this?"

"Something a child would do."

Not surprisingly, Loz's face contorts in anger. A moment later, though, the expression he wears is a pout. He's clutching the fork, though he hasn't attempted to stick it between the cast and his leg since his scolding.

Yazoo sort of saunters by and snatches it out of his hand.

"Hey!"

A loud clank is heard; the utensil has been tossed somewhere, and somewhat violently, it would seem.

"Don't you have anything better to do?" Loz asks, annoyed.

"Better than try and keep you from scratching yourself with our very limited supply of silverware?"

There's a scraping sound, followed by a low thud as Loz slides his leg from the tabletop and moves to stand up. "Why don't you go pick on someone else?" he demands, somewhat childishly.

"Sit back down," Yazoo says, tiredly.

Loz remains standing.

Yazoo shakes his head when it dawns on him that he _doesn't_ have anything better to do or anyone else to pick on and that's the real reason he's acting this way. Ashamedly, he admits, "No, I don't have anything better to do."

Loz stares down at the floor, shifting his weight as much as he can without knocking himself off-balance. It's uncomfortable and awkward and not just on a physical level.

"Or anyone else to pick on," Yazoo adds, though he knows he doesn't need to. It's obvious from the look on Loz's face that he understands.

Loz says nothing, just clears his throat, then hobbles out of the room, feeling like he's dragging much more than his leg.

Yazoo puts a hand to each temple. His head is throbbing, but he's almost certain it has little to do with the lump there. His whole body aches. His whole being aches.

* * *

_"Kadaj?"_

_Cat-like green eyes twinkle and a satisfied smirk appears. Kadaj is amused. He's always liked the look of one in distress. He can't help it. It means _he _has the edge._

_"Kadaj!" Yazoo is yelling now, but he's not sure why. Kadaj is standing right in front of him._

_"I'm right here," he says, lightly, happily._

_"It's really you."_

_"It's really me."_

_"You're really here."_

_"I'm really here."_

_A smile. Shared._

_"But I'm still dead."_

_Yazoo begins yelling again._

Yazoo opens his eyes suddenly, unable to stay in the dream any longer, and immediately regrets the action. It's the middle of the night, but the lights are on and it sends an intense pain all the way to the back of his head. He squints and groans, and shields his face with his hands. Once Yazoo's eyes have begun to adjust to the light, he opens them a little wider and Loz's blurry figure slowly comes into focus. He's standing in the doorway, leaning against the doorframe. He's holding something in one hand and looks exhausted.

"What?" Yazoo asks, slightly impatiently.

"I heard you calling his name," Loz replies quietly, sheepishly.

"Oh?" Yazoo asks, doing his best to look and sound oblivious.

"Yeah," Loz confirms, his smirk letting his younger brother know he's not buying it. The expression softens, though, a moment later; he's not going to push it.

Instead of asking Loz if _he_ dreams of Kadaj, Yazoo inquires, "What is that in your hand?"

Loz looks down at the item in question. It's long, thin, metal and looks like it's been bent a few too many times. He shrugs. "It's a wire hanger."

If Yazoo were more awake, he'd have a snappy remark. Not so, in the dead of night. He blinks a couple of times and repeats, "A wire hanger?"

"What was I supposed to do? You took away my fork," Loz says, with a crooked smile.

Yazoo sighs. He tells himself now is not the time and he is not the slightest bit amused. "Go back to bed, Loz."

Loz cocks his head to the side.

Yazoo softly says, "I'm sorry if I woke you." Then he firmly adds, "Go."

Loz nods and flicks the light off with his free hand and the door clicks shut a second later. Yazoo can hear his heavy, clunky, uneven steps, and finally, the sound of Loz's bedroom door closing. He suddenly wonders if Loz had the hanger in bed with him. He'll ask later. Maybe.

* * *

It isn't much of a grave, really, Yazoo notes. Then again, it isn't _his _doing. Neither he nor Loz says anything, they just stand stiffly, side by side. Yazoo's goose egg is long gone, his strains, sprains, and bruises all healed. The headaches are better, though they still come and go. However, he doesn't imagine _that _changing as long as Loz is around. Loz's cast is off, his broken bones have mended and the itching has stopped; the mangled hanger has been disposed of. He's back to looking imposing and self-assured. Both are well enough to fight again, though they've decided that maybe they'll try their hand at _work _instead.

Yazoo wonders what Big Brother is thinking, doing this. That monstrous sword is standing again - the one Kadaj had kicked over. It feels like that was ages ago, though it really hasn't been very long.

That monstrous sword is standing again, and next to it is Souba.

Yazoo suddenly wonders what it would be like if the Velvet Nightmare and Dual Hound were part of this makeshift memorial, too.

* * *

Author's Note: In case it isn't blatantly obvious, I had a _hell_ of a time with the end of this. I knew what I wanted to say, but I just couldn't make it sound right. I effed with the paragraph arrangement once again and this is what I went with. And yeah, maybe it's wacky of me to have Cloud put Kadaj's sword there. Whatever. There are much wackier things when it comes to Mr. Strife, including but not limited to stories where he gets it on with Sephiroth and his "There's Something About Mary" hair.

Anyhoo, reviews are good and I like them and they make me happy and stuff. ...I remember once, I put it in my profile here that I didn't care if you called yourself Penis Wrinkle so long as you reviewed me, but then someone actually did that. Still, reviews are nice. :)


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